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Subject: {ASSM} "A WEDDING STORY: The Flower Girl" Ch. 2 (Mg, inc cons, slow)
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Date: Sun,  1 Feb 2004 19:10:06 -0500
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WARNING: The following fictitious folio contains scenes of pedophilia
and wanton incestuous nature. If this offends you in any way, please
STOP reading now and move on to another post. By continuing on from this
point it is assumed that you are of legal age and choose to read the
story for your own benefit, entertainment and/or pleasure. Crying FOUL
after having read the story and flaming me for the sexual abuse of
minors will just show you to be ignorant of this WARNING. 

DISCLAIMER: The ensuing tale has no basis in real life and is not
indicative of actual persons, places or events. It is for entertainment
value only. Please read with all the proper precautions and use
protective equipment if required in your area. Most of all, have safe
autosex. 

NOTE:  To the reader who chastised me for not having any sex in Chapter
One, I apologize.  Excusez-moi, sil vous plait.  I forgot to add 'slow'
in my story codes.  As you can see, I've added it now in the subject
line.  For those of you who feel the same way, Chapter Two will
disappoint you as well.  No sex.  This is the story of a slow seduction,
and as such will progress slowly.  Seduction by whom, you might ask?
Perhaps a little bit from both characters.  Won't you please take a
moment and read Chapter Two and find out where it takes you?  Thank you.
Merci.  Adieu.  


A WEDDING STORY: The Flower Girl 

by ltlgrl69 

(Mg, inc, cons, slow, uncle/niece, mast, oral) 


Chapter Two: 

L'Atelier Robe (French)
The Dress Shop 


"Now where is it?" I said out loud to myself as I drove anxiously past
the row of stores and shops and cafes and coffee houses and anything
else that you could squeeze into two straight blocks of commercialism in
the community. 

I was sweating bullets. And not puny .22s, either. More like .44 caliber
Dirty-Harry-style bullets. Was I feeling lucky, punk? Not at the moment
I wasn't. 

Tracy sat quietly next to me on the front seat of my car. I hadn't
bothered to 'buckle her up' as required by law in order to save time.
The law be damned. Rather be fined a monetary amount than face the
wretched wrath of my sister for being late to her wedding with the
Flower Girl. 

I ducked my head and peered out the side window trying to find the sign
for the Dress Shop. Sweat beaded down the back of my neck and I worried
briefly that I'd ruin my dress shirt and have 'ring-around-the-collar'.
No time to remember old commercials now. Maybe later. In the hospital.
Laid up after my ass was kicked by my sister. 

"Something wrong, Uncle Frank?" my niece asked. 

"No, not at all. Why do you ask, Pumpkin?" 

(I wondered if my 6-year-old niece would be able to detect the note of
sarcasm in my voice). 
"'Cause you look all worried and your whole body's shaking," Tracy said. 

(So much for body language). 

"No, no, I'm just trying to find the Dress Shop," I told her. "I could
have sworn it was in amongst these stores. Why can't I find it? Well, it
was French so maybe they hightailed it out of here when restaurants
started serving AMERICAN fries instead of FRENCH fries." 

"They make dresses, not french fries," my niece calmly and deliberately
said. 

(Now was that a hint of sarcasm in her voice?). 

I reached the end of the two-block stretch of retail establishments
empty-handed. Or rather no-dress-handed. Maybe I should find a pay phone
and call my sister and ask her exactly where this Dress Shop was
located. 

(Yeah, right, and for my reception dinner entree I'd like my balls back
right after my sister rips them from between my legs!). 

"What's it called?" I heard Tracy ask me. 

"What?" 

"The Dress Shop." 

"Um, Mad Man's Truffles or something like that," I said, sighing heavily
and resigning myself to the fact that my sperm-producing years were
over. 

"Huh?" my niece asked, confused. 

"Some French lady's name," I told Tracy. 

"M - A - D - A - M - E - S -" Tracy started spelling letters out loud. 

(No time for spelling bees, I thought. Time for spilling beans, however.
I'd have to 'fess up to Heather and take my chances with her. Just make
sure all cutlery was out of reach). 

"T - R - O - U - S - S - E - A - U" my niece stopped spelling. 

"Is that it, Uncle Frank?" she asked, pointing out her window at a small
storefront at the very end of the block. 

I ducked my head down and looked past my seated niece and out the
passenger-side window. There, written in large capital letters across a
plate glass window was: 

MADAME'S TROUSSEAU 

Now how could I have missed that? Damn French. They made me miss it on
purpose. 

(Current state-of-mind and the fact that my prescription glasses were
long overdue for an overhaul never entered into the equation, of
course). 

"That's it!" I cried. 

I pulled the car over to the curb directly in front of the shop and
climbed out of the car. I ran around the car and leaped up the steps to
the shop's front door. Turning the knob I was just setting my first foot
inside when I realized I had forgotten something. I turned my head
around and there sat Tracy in the car staring out the window at me. 

(She can spell but can she walk?). 

I waved at her indicating that she should get out of the car and come
with me into the shop. But she just sat there. I waved again, and she
lifted a hand and extended one finger downwards. 

Was my niece giving me the finger? The upside-down finger? No, wait, it
wasn't the middle finger. It was the forefinger. Well, maybe the
upside-down forefinger was the 6-year-old's version of 'the finger'. Who
knows? 

Slightly angered, I walked back down the steps and over to the passenger
side of my car. The windows were up and Tracy was just sitting there
staring at me. She's a beautiful little angel and all but even angels
get bent wings once in a while. 

I stooped down and peered in at my niece. Again, she made the hand
gesture with her forefinger extended downwards. I became livid. 

"Young lady, you get your butt out of that car this instant!" I yelled. 

"I can't!" I heard her muffled yelling through the closed window. 

"You mean you won't!" I yelled back. 

"I can't!" Tracy yelled again. 

"And WHY NOT?" I yelled, this time even louder. 

"L - O - C - K - E - D!" my niece spelled out, enunciating and yelling
every single letter. 

(DEFINITELY sarcasm in her voice this time). 

Oh. 

Sheepishly I fished the car keys out of my pants pocket and pressed the
button to unlock the doors. Tracy opened the door and climbed out. She
looked at me with the same look in her green eyes that her mother had
back at the house when I had wanted to know why 'I' had to take Tracy to
the Dress Shop. 

I was cowed once anew. 

Silently I followed my niece up the steps and into the Dress Shop. 

Once inside, I saw a clock on the wall and noticed the time. 

(Boys, prepare to be cut off). 

A woman came into the room from behind a curtain and I quickly asked her
if I could use her phone. She pointed to the sales counter and I rushed
over to it. I dialed home and prayed for a miracle. Or at least a
reprieve from the ball-cutting ceremony. 

My mother answered the phone and I was informed that things there were
not running smoothly at all. Not in the least. And that the wedding had
been pushed up to 5:00 instead of 4:00. My mother had asked me if there
was a problem and I told her that there was no problem and that things
on my end were running smoothly. Extremely smoothly. 

(God take me now!). 

I hung up and felt extremely relieved. Reprieved after all. I must have
done something right in this life. What it was I didn't know. Nothing
came to mind at the moment. 

I turned to the woman who had come into the room and announced my name
and the name of the wedding and introduced my niece, Tracy, and threw in
a mention of a dress. 

Immediately the woman launched into a response laden with French-like
words. Oh, all right, it was perfect French. And I didn't understand a
single word of it. But I did manage to catch one word at the end of her
soliloquy and that was "fitting" (only she pronounced it "feeting") and
so I nodded my head and the woman took Tracy and disappeared behind the
curtain.
 
I found a chair and collapsed into it. My job was half over. I had
gotten Tracy to the Dress Shop. She was currently getting fitted for the
Dress. After that, I had to get her to the church. On time. Which looked
to be highly do-able now considering the wedding time shift. I was
pleased with myself. For not being one to handle these everyday life
situations I think I did pretty well. Considering. A couple of things. 

Things beyond my control. 

(Denial, denial, denial). 

And so I waited. 

I looked around the interior of the Dress Shop and marveled at the
relics and antiquities which all had a French design to them. How did I
know they were French? Americans, even the English, wouldn't make things
that ugly. It had to be French. 

Upon the walls were drawings of wedding dresses in all different kinds
of styles. Let me guess: French styles. Non? Excusez-moi, Madame
Trousseau. Vive le roi. Or whatever other trite French sayings I
happened to know. 

I glanced towards the curtain that separated the back room from the main
shop area. I hadn't heard any noise from back there since my niece
disappeared behind the curtain with the French lady. Maybe she kidnapped
Tracy and was forcing her to work sewing wedding dresses in a cheap
basement factory somewhere in Marseilles. 

(No, wait, that's Malaysia. Isn't Malaysia French? No, wait, it's
British. The British Himalayas, yeah, that's it). 

All Geography aside (which I flunked, by the way) I wondered what was
going on back there in the, um, back. Was the French lady only sewing
the dress now? By hand? With help from all the other little kidnapped
children from Malaysia? Uh, I mean, Marseilles? 

(No, wait, they couldn't be back there. They'd still be in Marseilles.
In the basement factory. 
Sweating. In the shop). 

I stood up and walked up to the curtain. I put my ear to it like you
would put your ear to a door to try and see and if you could hear
anything on the other side. It's kind of hard to do that with a curtain,
however, as you can't get the curtain to stay still and press your ear
against it. Go ahead, try it some time. 

I slipped through the curtain and entered the back room. It was dark,
and a hallway led back to an inner room which looked larger than the
shop on the other side of the curtain. I walked slowly down the hallway,
trying not to give myself away. For one thing, I wasn't sure that I was
allowed back here. For another, if there were kidnapped child slave
workers back here my presence would alert the slavemaster and she'd
hustle the kids down the tunnel and send them back to Marseilles never
to be seen again. 

(I have got to stop living my work). 

As I neared the end of the hallway, light spilled out from the inner
room. I heard whispering in a French accent and chaste footsteps every
so often. I came to a doorway and cautiously peered around the jamb.
There, in a small fitting room, were my niece and the French lady. 

(No slave workers, in case you were wondering). 

Tracy was standing on a small raised platform and the French lady was
walking around her taking all sorts of measurements. Tracy stood there
motionless as the French lady spoke in French to Tracy as if she
expected the 6-year-old to answer back. 

Where was the dress? I thought to myself. I thought it was supposed to
be ready. I don't see it anywhere. Was the French lady just going to sew
the dress now? There was no time for that! This cannot be! Damn the
French!
 
And then, the French lady moved away from my niece and walked over to a
steamer trunk. 
When she did, I could see my niece more clearly now. And what I saw
actually took my breath away. 

Tracy, my 6-year-old niece, was standing up on that platform in just her
panties. Now you must understand that I had never seen my niece in this
state of undress since she was 2.  In the last four years that I've seen
her grow up, the least I've ever seen her wear was a one-piece bathing
suit. I'd never actually seen a little girl undressed like Tracy was
now. And something about seeing my niece like that did something to me. 

Her beauty was part of it. Her shoulder length blonde hair draped down
over her bare shoulders, shoulders which looked incredibly soft and
smooth. She looked like a Princess standing there patiently waiting for
her dress. 
But her beauty was not all of it. 

What struck me most about seeing my niece standing there in just her
panties was her sexiness. Yes, I said her sexiness. My eyes drifted down
the front of her body slowly, taking in every inch of her flawless skin.
Young, supple skin. Her flat, concave chest dotted with two dime-sized
pink nipples. Her alabaster tummy, indented with an innie belly button. 
And then her panties, covering the very essence of her girlhood. My eyes
quickly skipped to behind her body, where her panties adhered to her
buttocks, shaping them, accentuating them, twin globes of flesh jutting
out behind her. 

I shook my head amazedly. What the hell was I thinking? This was a
six-year-old girl! This was my niece! I can't be thinking of her as
sexy! I can't be looking at her shapeless little girl body like it
excited me! I just can't! 

But yet it did. And I was. And I didn't know what to do about it. This
was insane. I'm no child molester. I'm no pedophile. Am I? 

The French lady came back into view then and obscured my vision of Tracy
once again. In her hands she carried a beautiful dress. If it was a
French design, it certainly said a lot for French artistry. The French
lady held up the dress for Tracy to look at and then said something in
French to her. She laid the dress down on a nearby table and walked over
to an ornate dresser and opened a drawer and pulled out something (I
couldn't see what) and lay it on top of the dress. I saw that it was a
pair of white nylons, or tights. Then she opened a closet door and bent
down to get something and came back up with a pair of shoes in her
hands. She showed them to Tracy who nodded, evidently liking the shoes,
and the French lady set the pair of shoes down on the table next to the
dress and tights. 

I saw that the shoes also were white. A slip-on pump with a two-inch
heel. Made for a 6-year-old girl.   A 6-year-old Flower Girl. The
shoes were shiny and small, but elegant in their own right. 

I decided to steal away from the scene before me and go back out to the
shop front. I was confused at the moment and the feelings that were
coursing through my body were both inhibitive and exciting. Besides, I
wanted to be surprised when I saw Tracy all dressed up when she came out
from the back room through the curtain. 

I went out front and sat back down in the chair. A tingling was running
through my groin. An excited tingling. I found myself turned on by
seeing my niece in her panties. I should just shake it off and forget
about it. Put it out of my mind. Never think about it again. It was
wrong. 
It was indecent. It was not normal. 

But I couldn't get the image of my niece out of my head. She was
gorgeous. She was sexy. 
She was six. I was lost. 

I was her Uncle and she looked up to me. I was her faux father and she
trusted me. I was her protector and she believed in me. She loved me. As
I loved her. Really loved her. 
Really wanted her. Wanted to -- touch her. 

No! How could I think that? But yet, I did. Want to. Touch her, that is.
Feel her. Caress her. Fondle her. Love her. 

I shook my head clear again and tried to think of something else. I
checked my watch and then the clock on the wall to make sure that I was
seeing the correct time. 4:35. Twenty-five minutes until the wedding
begins. That is, IF everything back home was going smoothly. As smoothly
as it was going here. 

(Yeah, very smoothly. Very un-goddamned-smoothly). 

My thoughts and fears were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming
from behind the curtain. They were done. They were coming. 

Tracy walked through the curtain followed by the French lady. Tracy was
wearing her Flower Girl dress. And she looked absolutely stunning! 

My niece walked out into the shop front and came up to me. I stood up
and the French lady 
said, 

"Monsieur, pouvoir je présente Madamoiselle Tracy!" 

"How do I look, Uncle Frank?" my niece asked me. 

"Beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous," I said, meaning it. 

Tracy smiled and did a little twirl, swirling the bottom of her white
dress around. As she did, I caught a glimpse of the white tights on her
legs and even spied some of her soft-looking thighs encased in the sheer
nylon material. On her small dainty feet were the white dress shoes. She
showed them off to me and I smiled and told her they, too, were
beautiful. 

I thanked the French lady and told her that I had to get Tracy to the
church. I didn't know if the French lady understood me but she smiled
and waved to Tracy as we left. 

I told Tracy to make sure and hold her dress up as she walked so that
she wouldn't get the bottom of it dirty. The dress went down to her
ankles. 

Inside the car, I glanced over at my niece sitting there.   Her pretty
face, her pouting lips, her curved neck. Gorgeous. 

I looked down and saw her feet hanging off of the car seat, her legs not
long enough for her feet to rest on the floor. I could see her ankles
covered in the white tights and she playfully kicked her feet up and
down. Something about that excited me. 

I looked away and quickly drove off. I'd just make it to the church. I
had done it after all. 

But what else had I done? What else would I do? What else did I want to
do? 

To my niece. 

To Tracy. 

To the Flower Girl. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the car pulled away from the curb, heading for the Church, to the
Wedding, Tracy thought back to her Uncle looking at her as she stood on
the stage in her underwear.  She knew he was looking.  She had seen him
out of the corner of her eye.  But he didn't know that she saw him.  And
she felt both funny and good that he was looking at her.  Staring at
her.  In her underwear.  She felt a love for him that had been growing
since she could remember.  He was the only man she really loved and felt
safe with.  But did he love her as well?  Tracy felt a tingle run
between her legs and she squeezed her thighs together.  Her Uncle
looking at her made her feel like that.  But how could she let him know
what he did to her?  She didn't quite understand it herself.  She just
knew that she felt something special inside her when she was with him.
She'd have to try and let him know how she felt.  She would.  Soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The End of Chapter Two


COMING NEXT: 

L'Eglise et la Cérémonie (French)
The Church and Ceremony


J'aimerai un 69!
J'adore les petites filles, et vous?
Bonne nuit,                  ltlgrl69 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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